I got an email from Amazon showing a lovely floral print dress with a full skirt and a boat neck. Sleeveless.
“That’s a pretty dress,” I remark.
“It is, but I never wear dresses any more and we shouldn’t spend the money on something I will never wear,” she replied
And a little of me died in that exchange. I know what she wears, every dreary cotton knit top, every pair of khakis, every pair of jeans, every pair of cotton panties, every drab white or beige sexless brassiere, purchased at BJ’s or Target or, maybe even the auto parts store, for all I know.
Somehow, crushing attraction or charm, has become her goal in life. Making herself beautiful because it would please her husband doesn’t register with her. And I have no answer.